birds of a feather
by stanzas
Summary: The first time you saw them you swore you'd lost your mind; the second, you thought what the hell; and the third you thought just maybe, you might need to actually ask about it.


**_summary_**: The first time you saw them you swore you'd lost your mind; the second, you thought what the hell; and the third you thought just maybe, you might need to actually ask about it.

_**a/n**_ - wooo! first supernatural fic! (i blame my friends for making me watch this show but wow now its over and everything hurts ow) my friend wanted me to write something /other/ than pjo so i figured, hey, what the hell. i noticed there's a lot of fics about dean seeing cas' wings so i figured i might give it a shot. i usually never write second person pov, so that was the first challenge. as for everything else, i've pretty much edited the crap out of this so run on sentences are intentional because the message i wanted was that dean's thoughts go in and out pretty quickly. uhm yeah that's about it..  
hope you enjoy!

* * *

_**birds of a feather**_

* * *

_birds of a feather, flock together_

_birds wings barebone, fly home alone_

* * *

Your name is Dean Winchester, and you are a dead man.

So yeah. Maybe you've saved the world a couple times, hunted some bad evil monsters under the bed and maybe, just made the world a little safer for the citizens inside it. Now you're thinking: well, hell, this doesn't mean nothing, because you've somehow managed to piss off an angel of the lord who is about to rain down the holy fires of heaven upon your ass. You'd like you keep your ass the way it is, preferable not heavenly fire flambe, thank you very much. And it's not just your ass you're worried about too; its the fact you've really, _really_, screwed up this time, and now you're having second thoughts about turning down that burger your brother offered to get only an hour before. But Sam's long gone to figure out what the hell should they do and now you're all alone with the pissed angel, the one who wants to smite you on the spot you're standing because _dammit you just had to open your mouth and say something_ and now he's pissed. Like _really_ pissed. Pissed sort of '_hey you're my friend and I love you but you've really jacked this up and now I'm going to have to kill you_' kind of pissed. You really hate it when people get like that around you, and it seems to be happening more and more and as it is, the number of people close enough to count '_friends_' (note: not the same as '_allies_') is slowly shrinking on your list and the count of numbers in your phone is diminished to only a select few.

Well, who's counting anyways. You're about to die by the hand of an angel and the only amusement you get out of it is the fact said angel is blushing brighter red than cherry pie, and that's just the beginning.

See, it wasn't really your fault. It was an accident. Probably. (Although, with your experience, nothing is just an '_accident_.') And the first time it happened you were a little too preoccupied with bleeding to death to really worry about it. So really, the fault, is at the hands of a clever witch who thought it would be funny to give you the sight of the supernatural, as in, seeing demons for what they really were, and who's a vampire and who's not, but it turns out the gift is more harmful than helpful. Mostly because it gives you bad headaches and _fuck_, you feel like you're one of the things you hunt now anyways.

That's not even the worst part: right after you'd confronted the little shit who'd done it, he kind of lost his temper for _'not accepting the true value of the gift_' and you say something along the lines of; "_Thanks, but no thanks, it's a really shitty gift, you can take it back now._" - so maybe you hurt his feelings just a little, but you were too pissed to care. X-ray vision would have been nice, but not this insane supernatural vision. It's annoying and you don't like it. The witch or wizard (_what the fuck is the difference anyways?_ then again, you should probably know the answer to that) got ganked by your little brother who delayed a little too late and the son of a bitch managed to toss you around a few more rounds before laying limp on the floor like a puppet with the strings cut off. You've definitely had worse, but somehow you felt lightheaded and barely able to stand, and Sam is saying "Dean no, don't stand up, just sit down-" and you want to say "Screw off I'm _fine_." but your voice seems gone and you can't find the energy to utter a sound.

You think; _shit_, _I'm dying.  
_Then you think;_ I fuckin' hate witches.  
_Then; _I could really go for a cheeseburger right about now._

_How pathetic_, you think glumly, because your stomach suddenly aches for food, but some other part of you says that's not hunger, but you slowly bleeding your guts out. Pleasant thoughts. You'd much rather be eating that crispy double bacon cheeseburger at the diner you passed on the way to get your ass kicked by an egotistical whack-job _witch_ in an abandoned factory plant.

"-Dean, stay awake, dammit!" Your brother's voice snaps you back into reality (sick, twisted, _disgusting_ reality) and his hands are on your face, his brow furrowed in concentration and his eyes are pleading, begging you, to stay with him. _Where else would I go?_ you think, and then it occurs to you that you're dying. Right. Back on topic: death, and the fickle matters of doing so.

Your brother looks at you in a way as if he's thinking the same thing; there's too much blood, and your arm is numb from holding in your guts so they don't spill out and make a mess of Dean Winchester all over the floor, and you are actually, _probably_, going to die. But before you can get your hopes up that death is about to claim you, a familiar flap of wings echoes in the workhouse and then a pair of concerned blue eyes is about the last thing to see. Castiel looks weary, like he's just about at his end game of '_dammit you Winchesters saving the world can you not die for ten minutes so I can rest_' kind of tired, places a hand on your forehead and whatever Angelic magic he has left goes into healing you. The headache you had earlier webbs away and the pain in your chest and other areas withers. You gasp for air like you'd never breathed before.

Sam is saying something, and Cas is nodding, but his eyes are set on you the whole time and you think dumbly- _have his eyes always been that blue?_- before you realize _holy shit, I just said that aloud_. Cas cocks his head to the side curiously, as if he was wondering if his healing application didn't work right, and now Dean's head is screwed up for eternity (which, you think unhappily, is not true as of yet).

Cas looks tired (wait, you've already noticed that before, you must be really out of it), even more tired than usual. Apocalyptic atmosphere tends to do that to a guy- er, well, angel. His shoulders sagged under the tan trench coat he was always (_stubbornly_) wearing. His eyes hadn't changed, however; bright, alert, timeless, like an angel should be.

Then you realized the big kicker you'd mostly ignored while staring at him. The two large drapes behind him, twitching ever so slightly with movement, and you just _stared_.  
You'd never seen an angels wings, but this isn't quite what you expected.

First of all, you have no clue where the rumors of white wings came from. His wings are darker than coal, obsidian, and they aren't fluffy and cute like Hallmark card angels (then again, barely any angels you've met would fit the Hallmark card description). The feathers are a little ruffled, some sticking at odd angles, but the angel wearing them doesn't seem to mind or notice. You want to put your hand out and touch one but your arms feel heavy, like they are made of lead. Cas notices you staring and his tone becomes more worried, while you just stare at the two appendages tumbling out of his back as if you've just seen the sun for the first time. Your brother moves your arms a bit and you bite your lip to avoid cursing at him; it feels like you've dipped your hands into lava. Cas' wings flutter nervously at your disorientation, and then the world dips and you fall into the bliss of unconsciousness.

* * *

The moment you wake your body aches all over. Some places more than others. The memory of Cas' wings slips your mind because; hey, you had pretty much thought you were hallucinating. A cold hand rests over your forehead and makes you uncomfortable. Your eyes snap open to meet a pair of calculating blue ones, and you manage to ask; "What happened?"

Castiel tells you of the witch, and how after your brother torched the witch, your vision should have returned to normal because the curse was lifted. You nod slowly and try to sit up straight, but your spine feels like it's been melded into a different shape with a blowtorch- a feeling that makes you gasp in surprise. Cas puts a hand on your forearm to steady you, and he seems concerned on your lack of coordination. You wave him off with an irritated "I'm _fine_." which you actually, aren't even close enough to being so. Your feet stumble and feel as though you are trying to lift iron weights with every step. Sometimes you miss being younger, being able to bounce back from hunts with ease, but this time you feel really out of it. And a hamburger and sex with the waitress at the diner isn't going to fix it.  
Then you see them again. Your head hurts a little to look at them, like they are causing your migraine, and you just sort of freeze.

Last time you saw black wings of death, darker than midnight, and you wonder how you could have been _so_ _wrong_. The wings aren't quite white, you think; more like a cream, peachy cream color. Content. That makes you wonder if an angels wings change color with their moods, or maybe their condition. The feathers are less ruffled than before, more puffed out, proud, fearless. Cas notices your gaze and the wings drop a little, this time the color ripples out like a stone being tossed in water; the cream colored feathers turn into dark blue, like the color of the deepest ocean. They twitch a little and Cas looks confused, turning his head ever so slightly as if he doesn't quite understand what you're seeing, and then you've just about had enough crazy for a day, and you heroically pass out on the floor. _Wings_. Castiel, the angel who saved you from hell- actually has wings. _What the hell._

You like to think you passed out from exhaustion, but really, you think it was because your brain hadn't quite wrapped itself around the weirdness of the situation. Although the tiredness of your limbs probably had a factor to play in it as well.

* * *

By the _third_ time you've seen them you've pretty much accepted Cas has wings and yep, your life is totally fucked. Sometimes you think about them, and your curiosity grows with each visit. But now it's even weirder; sometimes you see them, sometimes you don't. There is some sort of on/off switch on the whole seeing angel wings thing, and you aren't quite sure where it is or how to control it. If you concentrate long enough you can see the vague outline of them, but then they fade and it makes you worry if the witch's curse is finally going away. Good and bad. Although it was nice to have while it lasted.

The wings just intrigue you, mostly. When Cas pops in for a visit you find your eyes are drawn to them almost instantly. Each time the color surprises you, because _hell_, the angel has friggin' rainbow mood wings. You've corresponded some colors with his moods upon arrival. White and cream means content, peace. Deep blue means confusion or irritation. Brown or red means anger or hot emotion (you try to ignore what that could also mean) and black means worry, usually also meaning the angel bears grim news. In the back of your mind you think there's something wrong with you, color coding an angel's emotions, but you don't really seem to care. You can see the angel wings. So what? Then you wonder if it means anything to Cas, because he never addresses your fascination with them, or he doesn't notice.

Of course, your brother is the first to intrude. "Dude, you're always looking at Cas really weird. Don't scare the poor guy off."

You punch his arm with a little more force than you intend. "Shut up. Just...noticing things I hadn't before."

It's hard to hide the amusement in Sam's voice. "You mean you got hots for the angel."  
This time you don't feel bad about hitting him a lot more forcefully.

No, it's not a total lie. You still want to touch the angel's wings, because you wonder if they are as soft as they look, or if the feathers are brittle and firm and unforgivingly inflexible. Also the wings aren't as perfect as you originally thought. There are patches of burns (which makes you wonder how the angel got them in the first place), some scars across the wings, and tears in the bottom of the wings themselves. Worn down, you think, like the trench coat Castiel is so attached to. But then you think the worn down wings suit him, because anything hanging around the Winchesters is definitely going to earn some mileage. It shows the power the angel still posses, even without all his super powers in one place.

The wings aren't really a problem until you start noticing the feathers. Part of you marvels if the feathers were always there and now you've just started seeing them, but you see them popping up _everywhere_. On the beds, in the bathroom, collected in spots all over the floors. Can angels shed? If they could, then you have an allergy to feathers. Your nose itches constantly and Sam even asks you one day if you have a cold. "No," you grit your teeth and glare at him. "Shut up."

Finding feathers everywhere is annoying. You start collecting them, trying to control the amount of overwhelming feathers you're finding everywhere. The ones you touch are soft, like down feathers, and you muse for a moment that it would be possible to make a pillow out of them. And then you think how the angel in question would be very unamused to find his feathers are being used for pillow stuffers.

One day your brother catches you in the act. "Fuckin' feathers," you toss some in the air with irritation and shake them off your bed sheets. Sam pokes his head in from the tiny kitchen the motel spared. "Are you okay?"

"I hate birds," you say, which looking back, did look a little silly. You pick up a feather and hold it up for inspection, and your brother chokes. "Dude, where did you get that?"

"They're all over the friggin' floor, you ass," You pick more up and shove them onto the floor. You feel worried eyes on you and look up at Sam's bemused expression. "What?" you demand, feeling silly.

"Nothing," he says airily, and walks back into the kitchen. "Hey, I'm going to go out for some supplies. Want me to pick up a burger for you?"

"No."

"Alright," Sam takes the keys to your beloved Impala and his coat, opens the door, walks out, and he's gone. You're left with an itchy nose and a pile of angel feathers. Fantastic.

It's been a long time since you've had a normal case to investigate, and you're kind of glad you have something relatively normal to do, well, since the whole world-is-ending impending doom is hanging over your heads like the smell of old socks you just can't get rid of. (Maybe it's time to try a new laundry detergent.) And now you've got an angel with you but, hell, you've definitely seen weirder.

Just as you finished cleaning up the mess of feathers, you hear the familiar flap of wings you've gotten somewhat accustomed to, but turning around and seeing Cas' face right in front of your own is still a little bit of a shock.

"Hello, Dean," the angel says, and his eyes instantly zero in on the bag in your hands, with a couple feathers hanging out of the top. Then his eyes snap up to you and you can only think; _shit_.

"What are those?" He points to the bag in your hands, and you stuff it behind your back and try for an innocent smile.

"Nothing."

"Dean-" The school girl smile hasn't fooled him. _Dammit_.

Cas takes the bag from behind you and peers his head in, and then he glances back up at you and drops the bag. You've seen the angel angry, terrified, confused, and even nervous, but the expression he gives you is completely new.  
"So, wings, eh? I was expecting a little more Precious Moments coming from you." You say, in an attempt to turn the conversation around and (hopefully) spare your life for just a day longer. With realization you see that your comment only adds fuel to the fire you've just started, and _fuck_, now you're really done for.

Behind you, the angel's wings flare up and turn a vibrant shade of red and black, and then alternate all different colors in between. Rage, humiliation, fear, shame. His cheeks turn furiously pink and red as he struggles at an appropriate response. The virgin angel is blushing like the true virgin inside of him.

You don't know what to say. Hell, even if you did, you don't think you would have been able to say anything. Cas looks angry- _beyond_ angry. He looks betrayed.  
"Why didn't you say anything?" His voice is quiet, perfectly controlled, to keep the anger from leaking out.

"Thought I was seeing things." You say, which isn't technically a lie. Cas doesn't buy it. _(Damn angels.)_  
He shakes the bag of feathers in his hand and his eyes scrunch up in annoyance. "How long?"

"Ever since the freaky witch in Evanston," now you're a little pleading. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything."  
Cas says nothing, because his eyes are fixed on yours, and how they keep subconsciously flitting to the sides to look at his wings.  
"Stop that," the angel snaps. The wings close and try to hide behind the vessel's form, which is practically impossible, seeing as they are almost twice the length of Jimmy Novak's height and size. He shrinks a little and the wings twitch nervously as you take a hesitant step closer to them.

"Why?" you ask, and that question could be for so many things. Why you could still see the wings (even though you can't see demons or supernaturals anymore), or why they change colors so much, or why it's such a sensitive subject for heaven's mighty soldier to answer.

Without meaning to, you stretch your fingers to the surface of the feathers and the angel shudders. Then he just glares at you with those intense blue eyes that never leave your sight. For a second you're worried of two things; either he's going to fly away or the two of you will start fucking, because his eyes are glaring at you so deeply you just-

"Stop."

Your hand retracts before you're aware of it. You give the angel a confused look, and he just ignores it. His hands are shaking with rage or fear, you can't tell. Now you've pissed off the guy. Great. Your day is just getting better and _better_.  
For a minute you worry that Cas is _really_ going to kill you. His lips twitch before setting them in a firm line, and the bag of feathers drops from his hands.  
"Never speak of this," he spits out each word very carefully so there is no change you'll mistake them. You nod, but you feel numb and frozen, like you've been left in the middle of an arctic winter.

You blink once and the angel is gone.

* * *

Life continues on. You hunt things with your brother and purposefully skirt around the angel and suggest hesitant smiles, which he doesn't return. He's angry, and ashamed, you get that. Doesn't mean he has the right to be a downright _dick_.

Sam is aware of these interactions and asks once: "What's going on with you two?"

"Leave it alone." You snap a little rougher than you want, but he gets the message. He doesn't ask again and doesn't touch the topic, not even poke it when a ten foot long pole. Smart of him to do so, because you feel angry too. And you're still confused as to what the angel is thinking.

The wings don't cross your mind for a long time. Even when they pop up again, or when you spend a lifetime of Purgatory with the damn angel, and that's when you notice it. The wings are no longer changing color. They are black as coal and they look dead.

After you ask about it, when you gather the courage, when you're free of purgatory and all the sins with it. You expect the angel to get mad at you and leave in a flap of wings, but he doesn't. He just sighs, like he's been expecting the question. "They're marked," and the wings flutter relentlessly. "tainted. My grace is no longer...angelic." He looks down in shame.

You put your hand out to touch one and he doesn't flinch right away. "I still think they're fuckin' awesome."  
That does little to console the angel.

"What happened to white puffy wings?" you ask, because you figure the conversation is heading down the drain and you need some humor to ease the sharpness of the tone of Castiel's voice; raw, and broken. The poor guy had practically been through hell. (Well, he had, but not like this.)

"Myth," he shrugs helplessly. "Everyone sees them differently." It makes your heart twinge with the familiar ache of sadness to see him like this.  
_Too much heart was always Castiel's problem_, you hear the voices of the other angels say. _The moment he laid eyes on you he was lost.  
_That makes you wonder if that was true. If the reason Cas is so broken as he is, because of..._you_.

As if the angel could read your thoughts (which he undoubtedly could) he put a hand over your own, which is more of a friendly gesture than anything you've received from him in a while. "That isn't your fault, Dean. I chose this." The wings twitch a little when you run your hands through the down feathers.

That's about as close to friendship you've gotten in a while, and you're happy with just that.

* * *

When your eyes flit to his sides, the first thing you notice is the absence of them. Cas looks worse for wear; he looks dead. Like his life has just been ripped from him, he looks downcast even for an angel. His walking is sluggish and sloppy.  
"Cas?" you ask, tentative, because you aren't sure what has happened. The sky lit up with light as countless angels fell, and you could only watch.

It takes a few tries for the angel to speak, and when he does, it feels like someone's just dragged iron nails through your heart. "D...Dean." He sounds so broken, so lost, so hopeless.  
And then you see them; torn and lifeless, his wings lay limply to his side, covered in blood. You've never seen an angel cry, but this one seems close to it.

You embrace him in a bone-crushing hug, like the one you'd just given Sam, who is in about the same state as the angel. You pull away and notice how the angel's eyes don't glow, dull, and lifeless. Briefly, you wonder sadly if something in the angel has finally broken.

"_Cas_," you say again, and it's amazing your own voice doesn't shake with relief. The angel just looks at you once, and then his eyes flit to the tattered wings behind him.  
"It's over," he says, and his shoulders slump. Before your eyes, the wings vanish into smoke and fly away in the wind and vanish altogether.  
You put your arm over his shoulder for support, and lead him back to the car where the other part of your broken brother trio is sitting, his hands over his face to hide everything he's feeling.  
"It's okay," you say, but for the first time that means nothing. Your family has finally broken, and you're the only one left to patch them up. As usual. But at the very least, you think, you're together. The family is in desperate need of repair, you're close to falling apart yourself, but you know that everyone will pull through, because they _always_ do.

* * *

/ fin


End file.
